Chaos In the Rigging
by Tarlea
Summary: Table of Contents in profile. A collection of one-shots and drabbles in response to prompts over at the Broken Compass Forum. All topics and all characters including Elizabeth and Estrella, Norrington, Willabeth, M&M, P&R, Dalypso, Mercer, Jack Sparrow.
1. Chaos In the Rigging

-1Ok, so miss Nytd told me casually that I ought to wander over to the Broken Compass forum and check out the challenge thread, and I figured that was pretty much a challenge. The prompt was "Chaos." This is what came out (instead of an update for "Memoirs," sorry).

Chaos In the Rigging

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Elizabeth lay awake staring at the ceiling. She lifted a nimble hand and wiggled her fingers, watching the moonlight frost them with its silvery halo. Then she dropped her hand to her side again with an exasperated plop, and shifted herself determinedly to her side.

She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, willing herself to sleep, but all she could do was think of the day to come. By this time tomorrow she would be Mrs. William Turner and the thought made her both apprehensive and inexpressibly happy. She closed her eyes and imagined Will's face growing nearer as she marched down the aisle towards him. The look on his imagined face made her heart jump suddenly and she was unable to repress a small squeal of excitement.

"Miss Elizabeth?" a head popped around the edge of the narrow door at the end of the room.

"Estrella!" Elizabeth exclaimed, sitting up and grinning.

"Are you alright?" Estrella whispered, returning the smile and advancing from behind the door with a candle.

"You couldn't sleep either, huh?" Elizabeth drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her arms around them.

Estrella shook her head. "No. Though by right's I ought to sleep like the grave--what with everythin' all upside-down getting' ready for the wedding. Ms. Manly is all sixes and sevens, and Bartholomew keeps muttering about 'chaos in the rigging' or some such drabble from his stage days."

Elizabeth giggled.

"I'm sorry, Estrella. I hope it won't spoil your time tomorrow."

"I wouldn't worry about that, miss. From the looks of your William, it's you that'll need your rest tomorrow." She grinned wickedly and Elizabeth stretched her face into mock offense before both girls collapsed against the bed in a fit of giggles.

There was much attempted shushing that only elicited more giggles.

This display might well have lasted all night, were it not that Elizabeth noticed a piece of paper clutched in one of her lady's maid's hands.

She sat up, still sputtering out the last of her laughter. "Estrella?"

"Yes?" Estrella managed to get out.

"What's that you've got in your hand?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just a letter." Estrella attempted to hide the letter by the ingenious practice of sitting on it. Which only made Elizabeth spring up and set to tickling the poor girl. As Estrella rolled around in an attempt to escape, Elizabeth snatched up the letter.

"To the Exquisite Ms. E." Elizabeth pronounced dramatically.

"Give that back." Estrella demanded good-naturedly, making a swoop for the letter.

Elizabeth pulled it out of her reach. "How do you know it's for you? It says 'to Ms. _E_.' It could be mine." She teased.

"It's to me, and it's none of you business." She grabbed again but Elizabeth was too quick.

"I must say your fellow has dreadful handwriting. And he spelled exquisite wrong."

"Well, 'e's not what you'd call a poet. But 'e's awful charmin' in the moonlight."

Elizabeth noticed the tenderness in the look on her friend's face and sobered, handing over the letter.

"I'm sorry, Estrella." She paused. "Why didn't you tell me you had a sweetheart?" she added, sounding a bit hurt.

"I've wanted to. But you were so busy with Lady Barclay, going this way an' that--and I've been busy too…" she trailed off. "I'm sorry."

She leaned forward to hug her mistress. When they let go both girls had tears in their eyes.

"I'm going to be married in the morning." Elizabeth exhaled.

"I know." Came the reply.

"I'm going to miss you, Estrella." The future Mrs. Turner's eyes were wide and rueful.

"Nonsense. I'm comin' with you to your new house."

"I know," Elizabeth admitted, sniffing. "But it won't be the same."

Estrella returned her sad look for a moment. "No."

Then she broke into a smile. "It'll be better."

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AN: Ok, so I definitely strayed a bit from the prompt, but I like Estrella, and the first thing I thought of with 'chaos' was wedding preparations--probably because my housemate is in the midst of them herself.

In case you were wondering, the "chaos in the rigging" is a shipping _and_ a theatre reference and comes from the fact that in days of yore sets were rigged with rope instead of cable and all worked by hand with sailor's knots and pulleys and such. Theatre managers decided that if you were going to use naval rigging techniques, that you might as well use sailors to operate them. Scene changes were done using whistle signals, just like a ship. I imagine Bartholomew as being a bit on the older side and having been both a seaman and worked in the stage business. (Just in case you forgot you were dealing with a theatre geek. :D)


	2. Once Upon A Dream

-1ONCE UPON A DREAM

**Previously at The Broken Compass…**

Tarlea! I challenge you to write a drabble or one-shot. Norrington centered...he has a dream or someone has a dream about him. You must use the words _insubstantial_,_ steamy_ and _honor_.

**Warning: **Rated S for Smut.

**Note: **This story takes pace after the end of my fic _The Memoirs of James Norrington Part 1_. The fic takes place on board _The Flying Dutchman, _and at the finale Norrington eschews the afterlife and joins Captain Turner's crew. So our story begins….

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James Norrington, former Admiral of the East India Company of the Caribbean and newly appointed crewmember of _The Flying Dutchman_, stood looking up at the stars in the endless night sky. After a few moments, he began to feel a sensation he had not felt in weeks: fatigue.

For the month he had been a passenger on board Captain Turner's ship, James Norrington had not touched the small bunk in his cramped cabin. He had not needed to rest or eat, being impervious to all forms of living weakness. He didn't fully understand just yet what the status of his mortality was at the moment, but he did know that he was tired, and so he left the stars and the sky to the night and climbed below.

He barely had a few moments to observe how wonderful it was to sleep again before he slipped into a deep, heavy slumber…

Candlelight flickered from a brass candelabra in the center of the table. Beyond the tiny flames Norrington could see illuminated the faces of some of his acquaintances. There was the red-faced and merry Father Hibbits, Admiral Braithwaite and his wife; his hostess, Doctor Madeline Gray; and, his breath caught in his throat--Elizabeth Swann.

The very sight of her was enough to make him dizzy. She was wearing a very simple pale blue gown tonight, and without all of Lady Barclay's imposed fripperies and fancies, her natural beauty shone all the brighter. The candlelight caressed her graceful figure, emphasizing its soft, subtle depths and making James's pulse quicken with desire.

At that moment his nostrils were arrested by the most appetizing smell emitting from the dish laid before him. He was suddenly ravenously hungry, and tucked into one of Doctor Gray's exquisite dinners with a vengeance.

The dinner was accompanied by an abundance of wine, and the room soon became very hot. From her end of the table Elizabeth shot him a mischievous look, and somehow he knew she wanted to be alone with him. He rose to make an excuse, when suddenly the room was empty save for Elizabeth and himself.

She stood at the other end of the table, her eyes sending a tantalizing invitation. In four strides he had closed the distance between them, standing just before her, gazing down at her willing form, the welcome in her soft brown eyes sending a giddy rush through his entire being.

He was barely breathing now, except in shallow, searing breaths. His arm snaked around her slender waist, pulling her roughly towards him, unable to bridle his passions any longer. He kissed her, ever so slowly, tantalizing every nerve in her body; feeling the way she wilted in his embrace.

He kissed her again, this time more forcefully, his strong arms crushing her against him, her hands clutching at tufts of his chestnut locks.

After a few moments he released her, the both of them flushed and panting.

Then his powerful seaman's hands were upon her, sliding slowly down her bodice, grabbing handfuls of her skirts and yanking them heavenwards. She giggled at him.

"Here?" She teased, the laughter in her eyes making her all the more alluring.

James ignored her, leaning in again to taste the soft sweetness of her graceful neck, and the heaving bosom beneath, delighting in her shuddering sighs as her hands returned to the back of his head.

He reached behind her and lifted her effortlessly, so that she had to curl her legs around him, losing her shoes as they fell to the floor.

The next chamber was a sitting room, which featured a rather insubstantial looking chaise. James continued down the hall. When he opened the next door, he found he was looking into what his dim memories told him was Elizabeth's bedchamber.

Norrington placed her gently on the bed, kissing her again.

Elizabeth tilted her head back savoring the sensation of the calloused seaman's palms sliding beneath her dress, tugging at her stockings and peeling them slowly off. She looked down into the intense ravenous gaze under those strong brows and closed her eyes, reeling as he covered her mouth in another determined kiss, releasing a low moan that filled her with apprehension.

His hands, used to years of working with ropes and knots, made short work of the laces at the back of her dress, and his nimble fingers began to stroke her back gently, while his lips once again locked hers in a burning kiss.

This was a side of James she had never known before. No longer was he the staid officer, ever conscious of his honor. Nor was he the irrational drunken lout he had become in Tortuga. He was finally expressing his passion, taking her for his own, making her feel--

Elizabeth's eyes shot open. Outside her a fearful storm raged over Port Royal. Just then, a clap of thunder made her sit up. Then she remembered what she had just been dreaming about, her heated cheeks flushing a deeper scarlet.

Elizabeth sank back against her pillows, her conscience groaning guiltily at her steamy vision. Will had been gone less than two months, and here she was, dreaming (rather graphically) about sex with another man! And not just any man--with James!

Her eyes traveled instinctively to the intricately carved box inside which she knew was the heart of her beloved husband. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she fell back on the pillow, crying herself to sleep.

When she found herself once again in the realm of dreamland, it was Will's, not James' face she saw, and what they were doing is far to steamy for this author to recount.

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Author's Note: So there you have it. My sorry attempt at smut. Lol. The challenge is thusly met.


	3. The Man They Called Captain

-1This Week's Prompt: Wild & Untamed

The Man They Called Captain

The Captain was awake this evening. At least, he was sitting with his head upright, and not slumped forward on the table as he usually was. His eyes stared their cold, dark stare shadowed under heavy brows that were almost as foreboding as the unyielding jaw beneath, set into a permanent scowl. From his corner he watched expressionless as a dark woman in a dark dress leapt and twirled to a melody just as wild and untamed as she.

No one knew quite who the man was. The rumors said that he had once been an officer in His Majesty's Navy, and it was this, coupled with the stained yet epauletted coat that hung over his jagged shoulders, that caused the inmates of the Faithful Bride's barroom to christen him 'the Captain.'

From his customary perch on the landing above the main room, a boy of about fourteen with skin the color of burnt sugar and hair the color of pitch kept his omniscient gaze fixed on the tall Englishman. He himself cared little for the morose seaman; just another drunken waif adrift in the sea of sin and rum that was Tortuga.

But there was one who cared. A man who sent sealed packets full of coins and flourishes and who kept Pedrolino here, night after night, watching.


	4. A Man and An Iron Mask

This week's prompt: Mask and/or Masque (an allegorical play featuring members of the court). I managed to squeeze in both.

A Man and An Iron Mask

Will Turner looped his cravat one last time, smoothing it into place above the collar of his new waistcoat. He was not used to owning so many sets of clothing, but after days at sea and battles with undead pirates there were just some stains you couldn't remove, and so he had let Elizabeth help him select some newer, more fashionable suits.

The deft hands left the cravat and nimble fingers cradled the young craftsman's delicate creation, the product of a week's painstaking toil. The glinting object was raised and appraised one final time, before the strong, careful hands lowered it reverently into dark velvet folds and pulled a lid closed over it.

The young blacksmith strode through Port Royal's quieting streets. It was late afternoon, and the sun was slipping gently behind the trees and bringing a blessed cool to the balmy summer day. His hands guarded the precious wooden box that protected his gift.

He squinted into the setting sun as he climbed the hill towards the governor's mansion. When he reached the edge of the property he turned, and directed his footsteps not to the large mahogany door, but instead into the staunch hedges of the ornate garden. He was hardly through the leafy perimeter when a voice rang out with a greeting, and he was necklaced by a pair of soft white arms and muzzled by a pair of strong fervent lips.

When the embrace finally ended, Will took the hand of his attacker and led her to a small bench in a secluded corner of the garden. It was a favorite spot of theirs, though there were so many amidst the carefully trimmed topiaries and elegant palms. This garden was their kingdom, a place where they had grown up together in secret, playing hide-and-go-seek, and Romeo and Juliet. It had been several years since Will had navigated their garden fortress, but he still remembered the way to this special alcove.

Elizabeth sat down, grinning playfully up at him.

She laughed musically. "I got your note this morning. We don't have to meet like this anymore. Everyone knows about the engagement," She teased.

"I know. But I like it better this way. I can have you all to myself."

He did not match her smile, but fixed her with one of his deep, adoring gazes that made her feel as though she might drown inside his eyes and made her heart somersault. She broke eye contact first, noticing the plain but polished wooden box he held in his lap.

"Open it," he commanded, relinquishing his treasure.

The white fingers obeyed. The lid was gingerly lifted to reveal--a mask. Delicate and glittering, made not of fabric or wood, but of metal. Elizabeth could see at a glance her beloved's expert craftsmanship in its graceful curves, and its stunning, yet simple design. She lifted it, surprised at its weightlessness, turning it to watch the last rays of sunlight catch the intricate grooves etched into elegant flourishes across the glassy surface, and the feathery tendrils of metal spraying from the corner of one eyehole.

There was a moment of silence, as Elizabeth took in all of these details. When she spoke, it was in breathless awe.

"Oh Will. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He was pleased. "Not me." He punctuated his comment by catching up a small strand of her hair and twisting it around his fingers.

"I made it for you. For Lady Barclay's ball," he announced.

Elizabeth smiled warmly and raised the fragile visor to her face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed happily. "It isn't very big is it?"

The mask, unlike those that the fashionable set of Port Royal would doubtless be wearing to the event, covered only her large brown eyes and part of her nose.

"You shouldn't have to cover up any more of your face than you absolutely have to." Came the reply, as Will gently brushed aside his handiwork and softly kissed her nose, then her cheek, and then met her lips in a dizzying kiss.

When the young couple decided to breathe again, Will stood up, his eyes sparkling conspiratorially.

"Now, Miss Swann, if I'm to dance at this ball then we'd best finish my lesson." He held out a hand to his bride to be.

She giggled, amused by his reference to another stolen moment in the garden, a dancing lesson that had ended less than favorably. She placed her soft hand into his own calloused one and stood.

"I should be delighted to honor you with this dance, Mr. Turner."

While the young blacksmith and his fiancé were dancing in a garden, a very different gathering was taking place thousands of miles across the sea. A grave, poised and correct gentleman stood in a crowded room watching his masked monarch and waiting for the opportune moment.

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A/N: To read about Will's first dancing lesson, see _The Memoirs of James Norrington Part 1_, Ch. 7.


	5. Aftermath

This week's prompt: Alive

Aftermath

_Che son contenti nel fuoco_

We are of those that Dante saw  
Glad, for love's sake, among the flames of hell,  
Outdaring with a kiss all-powerful wrath;  
For we have passed athwart a fiercer hell,  
Through gloomier, more desperate circles  
Than ever Dante dreamed:  
And yet love kept us glad.

-- "Epilogue," by Richard Aldington

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"Jesus bloody wept!"

It was Private Logan who uttered the dire oath, but his sentiments were silently shared by the other red-jacketed men on the parapet. They stood, their mouths not gaped in surprise, but instead set into the grim line of men who had seen killing and killed themselves.

Only a half an hour ago they had screamed like devils, kicking and stabbing, clawing and clubbing, wetting their blades with blood and their brows with sweat, the terror in their stomachs driving them forward into the ruthless abyss of killing. This was what they had bought when they took the king's shilling; a brotherhood in the foul inhuman slaughter that was the British army.

Now, as the breeze lifted the smoke away and the moonlight once again cast its pale glow on the fort, they were able to see the effects of that slaughter. The blackened and blood-stained bodies piled in the courtyard. The shattered pieces too burnt and mangled to be called limbs that lay scattered before the gate. The twisted corpses slumped against the wall where they had fallen from the ramparts. The smoke that still billowed from the blaze that was once Port Royal town.

Private Murtogg stood, dazedly focused on a tiny rivulet of blood that was flowing from the gaping skull of one of his former comrades. He thought to himself that it was bloody hot for the middle of the night, and wished he were back in his native Northampton. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine its greenness, but the soldier's aroma of gunpowder and death kept him rooted in the god-forsaken present. He opened his eyes, and mused that combat was so much cleaner on board a ship, when one could just toss the bodies overboard. Here there were so many, piles upon piles of dingy red corpses, looking strangely peaceful under the soft moonbeams.

"Sam!"

Samuel Murtogg looked up to see another of his red-coated colleagues, a man with broad shoulders and a broad smile, approaching along the fire-step. The larger man seized his companion's narrow shoulders, holding his friend in an almost embrace.

"You're alive." He proclaimed.

"Yep. Still here." Murtogg grinned back.

The two men laughed at their good luck, for this night they had cheated death one more time. Below them in the courtyard were their less lucky comrades; those men who had sought the gold and glory their country had promised, and who were betrayed instead to death on this humid night of hell.

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A/N: In case you hadn't figured it out, this takes place after the Siege of Port Royal at the beginning of COTBP. Those of you who have read _Memoirs_ will know of my annoyance with the film's portrayal of the attack, with everyone showing up the next morning in spotless uniforms with not a hint of powder or blood anywhere…

(If you are interested in reading Norrington's take on the battle, see _The Memoirs of James Norrington Part 1 _Ch. 12 and 13.)


	6. Birds in the Baggywrinkle

This week's prompt: Nautical jargon used as innuendo.

A/N: It turns out the ship that brings Governor Swann and Elizabeth (and Will) to Port Royal is the _Dauntless_, but I didn't know that and so I'm using the same ship I created for memoirs, the _Endurance_.

Warning: Rated T. Do not underestimate the crudeness of seamen.

Birds in the Baggywrinkle

The night was warm and temperate and the moon bright and full as the _HMS Endurance _cut swiftly through the peaceful waves. In the captain's cabin, Lieutenant Norrington was enjoying an after-dinner brandy with the Governor and his captain, and the young officer's deep laughter was drifting through the open window to where the boy was crouching in the shadows.

He waited a moment, and once he had assured himself that the coast was clear, he scampered aft, deciding there was nothing interesting going on forward. He took cover behind one of this ship's smaller cannons, still small enough to hide his slight form. He looked ahead, his keen eyes noticing the shadow of the officer of the watch moving slowly along the deck further aft. He ducked lower, watching the footsteps coming nearer, slowing his breathing, knowing that punishment would await if he were caught…

"William Turner!" The whisper came sharply through the still night air, scolding its namesake.

The boy acted quickly, clamping a hand over the girl's delicate mouth and pulling her down beside him behind the weapon. He felt her tongue swipe against his palm and released her.

"What are you doing here?" She continued. "You should be below decks resting."

"Aw Elizabeth, I'm fine." He whispered back. "Now quiet, before we both get caught. If your father found out…."

"I don't care." Elizabeth said haughtily, her sense of adventure overpowering her concern for her patient.

Will gestured to her to follow him, and they both slid ever so slowly over the brim of the gun. The officer had vanished, and the young compatriots slid down behind the cannon again, laughing in nervous relief.

Just then, the ship's bell rang out, rending the silent night and making Will and Elizabeth jump.

"The changing of the watch." Elizabeth hissed.

"We can't stay here," Will said decisively.

He grabbed her hand, and making a final check, made a break for the companionway that would take them both to their bunks and out of trouble. The sound of voices changed his mind. His eyes quickly scanned the deck, but there was nowhere to hide except behind the mainmast. It was a slim chance, but on the empty deck in the moonlight they were sitting ducks.

He dove for the heavy beam, pulling Elizabeth beside him, helping her tuck her billowy white nightgown so that it was out of sight. Then they waited, Will willing his heart to stop beating so loudly. He was keenly aware of Elizabeth's shallow breath next him, and the fact that she still clung to his hand.

"E'vnin'. 'ow's it been?" This was not an officer, but one of the other men of the watch.

"Still as a sleepin' whore." Came the crude reply.

"Captain's still dinin' wiv all the sirs, eh?"

"Aye."

"Then supposin' you finish tellin' me wot is was you was tryin' tuh say at chow."

"Well, it's to do with Midshipman Gideon. You know how come it is he aint on this voyage with us?"

"Tell me."

"Well, it's on account of him bein' caught with the Captain's niece last time she was aboard."

"So?"

"So they wasn't exactly playin' cribbage if ya know what I mean."

Apparently his companion was none too bright.

"They were--ya know--_a-hull_ together."

Silence. The storyteller sighed and tried again.

"Ya know--he dropped his anchor in her limber hole."

Dawn seemed to break for the listener. "Ohhh…you mean 'e wasn't choking the luff alone tha' night."

"No he wasn't."

The seamen laughed together.

"And," the teller continued, "rumor has it that she has birds in her baggywrinkle, if ya know what I mean, so looks like master Gideon's gonna have a hell of a time explain' things to that sweetheart of his back home."

More rowdy laughter followed. Behind the mast, Will was fairly glowing red with embarrassment. Elizabeth seemed undaunted.

"What's wrong?" she noticed his awkward expression.

"Don't you know what they're talking about?"

She blinked back innocently. Will leaned forward and cupped a hand to whisper in her ear.

Elizabeth expressed her shock in a sudden, loud gasp.

Will could hear the footsteps advancing even as he yanked Elizabeth from their hiding spot and ran for the shelter of the companionway, the angry sailors shouting and cursing after them, disturbing the peace of the gentle night.

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A/N: I ransacked a nautical glossary for this one.

A-hull, to lie .... A vessel is said to be lying _a-hull_, when it has no _sails set_ and the _helm_ lashed down.

Baggywrinkle .... A protective sheath wound around _shrouds_ etc. to prevent the sails from chafing, made from many short lengths of _line_ woven together.

Choke the luff…A method of stopping the movement of a rope through a _block,_ by jamming the hauling part across the _sheave_ or _pulley_.

Limber hole .... Holes in the frames that form a _hull_ allowing the water to drain to the lowest part of the _bilges_.


	7. For Love of A Goddess

This week's prompt: Flower

For Love of A Goddess

Every crewman on the _Flying Dutchman _knew about the chest. It was of a medium size and a dark polished wood, and inside it were the Captain's most treasured possessions. And what were these treasures? Nothing that your common pirate would call valuable. For inside the chest there were no precious metals or jewels, no money and no rum, but to Davy Jones, it was all that mattered in the world.

For here was the great love of his life, manifested in letters yellowed with age, pages filled with poetry, passion and longing. Here were trinkets; a small volume of ancient remedies, a carved statuette of Tethys, a miniature portrait that depicted a glowing beauty with dark skin and dark eyes that were as deep and as wise as the sea. Here also was a bouquet of flowers, once a fiery orange, now limp and pale, but still clinging to the slightest hint of fragrance.

It was blossoms like those in the chest that, mixed with a special seaweed known only to the Atlantians, and taken in a sweet crimson wine, had first captured the heart of young Davy Jones.

According to legend, Calypso traveled the world, dispensing the healing wisdom of Atlantis, and like her cousin Athena, taking human form to aid mortals that captured her favor. It was on one of her excursions that she first spied the handsome face and powerful form of Davy Jones, shipwrecked at eighteen on the Kythiraian shore. All who knew the tale knew that that was the moment that Davy Jones fell in love with the sea, but what only he knew was that it was she who had loved him first. She had served him the ancient potion, the same that had been used for centuries by the Atlantians to inspire blistering passion and eternal love.

Davy Jones contemplated all of this, sitting sleepless in his cabin with the precious chest open before him. In the silence of the sultry night a tinkling and ethereal melody wafted through the darkness. He looked again through the chamber's small window, willing the sun to appear on the horizon. For, in the morning, he would finally still the pulsing ache in his chest; he would gaze once again on the face of his beloved Calypso, and hear her say the words that he heard over and over in his dreams: "Here I am, my love."

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A/N: If you look very carefully when Elizabeth, Jack and James find the chest you'll notice that among the letters is a bouquet of flowers. I thought I might break out of my rather more fluffy love stories this week and take on the deep passion of Calypso and Jones. Readers of _Memoirs_ will notice the motif of Calypso as a healer.

According to Greek mythology, Calypso is the daughter of the titan Atlas and the titaness/sea goddess/nymph Tethys. Tethys is the daughter of Uranus and Gaia, and the wife of Oceanus. She is the mother of major rivers like the Nile, the Alpheus, and the Maeander. In one myth, she is cited as Hera's nurse and, at the bidding of her mistress, caused the constellations to circle in the sky as they do today. But I digress…

Kythira is one of the Ionian islands off the southern coast of Greece. In some mythology, the island where Calypso (Circe) is supposed to have captivated Odysseus is Atlantis. See, it all makes sense. : )


	8. Of Wick and Wax

This week's prompt: Candles

A/N: The prompt was bit too broad for me to settle on one thing, so I decided to see what kinds of traditions were associated with candles. I happened upon the most adorable one and I just couldn't help having Elizabeth and Estrella try it. According to the custom, if a girl walks backwards down stairs while holding a candle, she will come face to face with her future love.

Of Wick and Wax

Elizabeth reached out a hand and brushed a strand of sandy hair out of her son's eyes. She leaned over his sleeping form and kissed his cheek. Then she sighed, and, her candlestick lifted high, left her son to the night's darkness and his enviably peaceful sleep.

It was spring, and there was gentle rain shushing against her windows that made her feel at once calm and restless. She took her candle back to the parlor, where she had been sitting in the dim light of the last of the day's candles, staring through large windows into the black night. She resumed her seat, and let the raindrops lull her into a bittersweet nostalgia.

She was struck by a distant memory of two small girls, one fair-haired and scrawny and the other hearty and brown, and both covered in freckles. It was a rainy afternoon, and they had been trying--by every means possible--to discover the name of the man they would be fated to marry someday. They had tried a few methods without success, and the kitchen was littered with all manner of apple peels, flower petals, and scraps of paper.

Now each girl stood with a plain white candle in outstretched arms before her.

"You go first," Elizabeth instructed her friend, "All you have to do is walk down the stairs with it."

Estrella mounted the narrow wooden steps, her candle raised reverently before her. She took a deep breath, and was about to begin her descent when her companion cried out--

"Wait! You have to go backwards! That's the whole point!"

Estrella, horrified that she had nearly doomed herself to a life of spinsterhood, did a quick about-face, and after receiving a final approving nod from Elizabeth, lowered a tenuous foot over the landing, clutching her candle in both hands and biting her lip in concentration. Elizabeth watched her descent carefully, holding her breath. This was serious magic, and the slightest disturbance could break the spell.

The silence curled through the air and stretched into the corners of the room. Step after step, Estrella edged closer to the kitchen floor.

The young maid had almost reached the last step, when William Turner burst through the door, soaked with rainwater and carrying a package. His sudden entrance made both girls start, and with a yelp Estrella tossed her candle and tottered backwards. Will, anticipating her descent, rushed to catch her, but the candle, which was thankfully not lit, chose that moment to sock him squarely in the eye, causing him to stumble backwards into Elizabeth who stood watching all of this with her candlestick still clasped in one nimble hand.

In the dim parlor, Elizabeth smiled at the memory. Poor Estrella had landed on her wrist and was in a splint for a month, but that day the other young lady had determined her future husband. Elizabeth sighed, but the sigh quickly became yawn, and she acknowledged gratefully that she was finally going to be able to sleep.

She rose, dousing all of the candles save the one in her hand, and mounted the shallow staircase to her bedchamber. Placing the glowing tallow on the small table beside her bed, Mrs. William Turner crawled into bed.

As the smoke from the now-extinguished candle curled through the darkness, the wife, who was in many ways still a girl, wished the silent wish that she asked for every night: that somehow, despite the curse and the chest and Calypso, she could somehow conjure a stronger magic that would bring her beloved back to her arms.

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A/N: I have always thought that if Will and Elizabeth didn't get together, that Will and Estrella might have had a go. But fate would not have it that way. Yes, Estrella almost ran into Will--but in the end it was Elizabeth the ritual chose… : )

In my research of candle traditions/superstitions, I found some interesting ones, including:

_A lighted candle (the Hand of Glory) positioned between the fingers of a corpse's hand, traditionally a hanged criminal, was believed to possess various magical powers such as opening locked doors, making the dead speak and freezing people in their footsteps._

_In Townsend's " Manual of Dates " the interesting information is given that "in excommunication by inch of candle, the sentence was not passed upon the offender if he repented before the candle burnt out."_

Both of which I wish I could have gotten into a drabble--alas, that plot bunny did not bite me. I also considered bringing in the custom of the courtship candle, but in the end this one won out. : )


	9. Priorities

This week's prompt: Priorities

Priorities: being A Brief Interlude regarding the Uncertainties of A Woman's Heart

The gently crunching fronds closed around Bootstrap's haggard face and he closed his eyes, once again part of the ship. Elizabeth sunk back from the encrusted bars of the _Flying Dutchman's _brig, feeling the weight of all of her uncertainties come crashing down upon her.

Bootstrap's words echoed in the hollow ache of her chest.

_If he saves me, he loses you._

_And I lose him. _Elizabeth's thoughts finished for her. The grizzled old seaman had been so sure about his son's choice, so sure that Will would once again put Elizabeth at the top of his list and give anything to have her. Yet lately he had looked upon her with hurt, mistrust, and perhaps even contempt. She had betrayed him and lied to him. And, she thought guiltily, there were her actions towards Jack. Which had nothing to do with love, and nothing to do with how she felt about Will, she argued back instantly, and yet they had wounded him still. Will had only ever been the steadfast friend, confidante, rescuer, and lover that she had always known. And now she had become unworthy of his faith in her. That thought filled her with disgust. She was not proud of her devious actions. She wanted desperately to be the strong and virtuous person that Will saw her to be.

The now pirate lord's breath escaped from her lips in a shaky sigh. She closed her eyes, imagining herself once again the precocious young girl in curls, running along the quay holding the hand of the scrawny and bedraggled blacksmith's apprentice. She felt the lump rise in her throat. Oh! To be ten again, so sure of oneself and of what one wanted.

What had become of that carefree headstrong girl? Was there any trace of her in the bedecked figure who crouched, surrounded by the seediest of companions, in the bowels of this devil's ship?

Elizabeth swallowed hard, forcing her reminisces back into her subconscious. She raised her head, exchanging a watery glance with one of the grimy black-haired men leaning against the bars in the opposite corner of the cell. She almost laughed bitterly at the thought of being a pirate captain. And not just any captain--a pirate lord! Once, it was the kind of adventure that young girl would have longed for more than anything. Now, she knew that her heart yearned for something very different. She had had her adventures and her dangers, sailed to the ends of the earth and back again--now all she wanted was to love and be loved.

Yet while she stood in this dank and slimy cell, her chances for happiness flew beyond her reach one by one. She remembered, the sorrow in her chest throbbing, the image of her father, floating off to the afterworld. Her mother's dazzling smile wavered momentarily in her mind's eye and then was replaced by Will's face, set with a piercing accusatory glare. Her heart constricted, and she bit her lip, employing all of her willpower to stay the hot tears that rose to her eyes.

A loud shout from above interrupted her struggle. It was James's voice.

_Dear James_. She admitted in her heart that she knew he hadn't had a part in her father's murder. He was as lost and as broken as she at the moment, neither of them where they hoped to be, neither of them truly happy. Each of them sought desperately that elusive happiness, both grasping for the tranquility and certainty of the past.

Elizabeth could not help but remember the day, which seemed a lifetime ago, but in reality was only two years, when James had stood in the sunshine of Fort Charles and asked her to be his wife. Then, she had thought it a dreadful suggestion, to marry where she did not love, a miserable fate to be a wife and mother, bearing children and hosting teas. A girl no longer, she knew what it was to love and be in some doubt of a return. She knew and appreciated now what it truly meant to be loved, more than any of her romantic notions of twenty could possibly understand.

_What of James? _she considered for the twentieth time. He was a good man, with a good heart. He was honorable and kind, intelligent and handsome, and tucked away under his controlled veneer was a passion that she had first witnessed in his duel on Isla Cruzes. There had been a time when he had loved her, and perhaps it was not to late to rekindle that affection. They could find happiness in solidarity, and through mutual affection heal the deep wounds the years had inflicted. They could lead a calm and simple life and, in time, perhaps that affection and understanding would deepen into love…

It was no use. She could not so easily prioritize her heart. There was but one truth, one thought and feeling that encompassed her soul: she loved William Turner, and she must find a way to regain his heart.

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A/N: Yikes! I didn't mean for this to be so anti-feministic (a powerful female pirate wants to settle down and be a wife?!).

When writing this chapter, I couldn't help but be influenced by that quote from _Little Women_:

"Oh, you're right about one thing, though. I am lonely. And maybe if Laurie had come back, I might have said yes. Not because I love him any differently, but because, well, because it means more to me now, to be loved, than it used to."

Also, fans of _Emma_ may have noticed the turn of phrase borrowed from Mr. Knightley:

"I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good."


	10. Discord

This week's prompt: Music

Discord

The streets of the forsaken city were noisier and more crowded than usual tonight, if that were possible. Music poured from every door and window and the normally dingy streets were festooned with color and light. Pirate and prostitute, tradesman and trawler, gambler and gravedigger danced and whirled and spun in the noisy throng, whooping and laughing for the sheer joy of it. Kisses were liberally shared, and the atmosphere was, unusual for Tortuga, one of goodwill and cheer.

James Norrington took shelter in the tiny chapel as the festivities raged around him. He kneeled, his closed eyes burning with the faces of his drowned colleagues. Over the din of celebration, a different kind of scream tore through the Commodore. As the seconds passed it was joined by a chorus of others, bloodcurdling and pitiable, that knotted his insides and made him feel as though he might vomit.

His eyes shot open, his heart pounding, his blood pulsing, his head screeching in pain, his hands clutching his knuckles white. The rugged wooden cross before him began to swim and blur--and then there was nothing but blackness.

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A/N: This started out as a prompt inspired by the lyrics: "So put another nickel in, in the nickelodeon, all I want is lovin' you and music, music, music," but I guess I couldn't help touching it with some James angst. This is meant to take place when James first arrives in Tortuga, having survived the hurricane and lost all of his comrades to its fury. Kind of a teaser for Part Two of _Memoirs_ coming this summer!! : )

And now I REALLY need to get back to my assignments!


	11. A Lover's Fee

This week's prompt: Clown

A/N: This plot bunny attacked me when I was up at 5:30AM after staying up all night working on a paper and I didn't have the energy or brainpower to fight it off. So if it's totally insane, blame Harvey. This is a bit AU. Post AWE.

A Lover's Fee

"I don't see why we had to come here," whined Pintel in hushed tones.

"Yeah," another voice chimed in nervously, "I don't see how this will help."

The boat, which had been slowly gliding through the shallow, murky water stopped for a moment, as its lead rower fixed his fellow crewmen with an exasperated look.

"We've tried everyfhin' else. She's the only wot can 'elp you." This last he directed at Mr. Mullroy, who sat hunched behind Pintel with a despondent expression drooping his face.

"Cheer up, Dan," Murtogg clapped his friend on the back as the boat began to drift forward again. "She'll be fallin' into your arms in no time."

A muffled and urgent noise emerged from the back of the boat. No one seemed to notice.

"Well 'ow d'you know she'll take 'im?" Pintel resumed his belligerent attack.

"She will," Ragetti replied, with more certainty than he felt. This had been his idea, and it had to work or else he'd be at the receiving end of a good deal of resentment from his pirate colleagues.

For the first time, the silent figure in the center of the boat, and the one whose necessity had inspired this voyage, spoke.

"She's got to take him! He's all we've got," he moaned, "And I don't think I can live without Mary."

Pintel rolled his eyes, and was about to offer a rather nasty reply when a sudden loud croak silenced the small band, and they spent the remainder of their journey inland in the frightened silence of superstitious sailors.

At last they reached the small stilted hut that rose unassumingly out of the swamp. Ragetti, Pintel, and Mullroy climbed out. Murtogg cam last, having been given the task of managing their cargo.

If Tia Dalma was surprised to see the present company before her she only revealed it in the slight raising of one eyebrow. There was an expectant silence. Ragetti spoke up first.

"Hi." He blurted out nervously.

Tia Dalma nodded. Ragetti swallowed and began to explain.

"You see we need a love potion. It's for 'im," he flicked a hand at Mullroy who stood cowering near the door, scanning a weary eye over the room's many accoutrements.

A flash of amusement showed on the witchdoctor's face.

"Come here," she commanded, and Mullroy started and obeyed. After sizing him up, she grunted. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Pintel blurted--

"I guess you'll be wantin' payment, eh? Well we brung 'im." He turned back and gestured to Murtogg, who stepped through the narrow door into the dimly lit cabin.

With him came the payment.

Bound and gagged, and looking like a scared rabbit was their captive. His bright orange hair was limp and muddy, and his brightly colored and shiny costume was rumpled and dingy. His heavily makeuped face had begun to run and blur, all except his nose, which stood naked where he had lost (with Pintel's help) the large and noisy red ball that he wore upon it.

"So, whatyya fink? Will ya take 'im?" Ragetti turned back to look at Tia Dalma.

The dark eyes passed from face to face. Then her features contorted into a look of such ferocity that it was all each man could do not to trip over each other on their way out.


	12. Children of the Gods

This week's prompt: ancestor

Children of the Gods

Tenoch carefully poured the shimmering molten liquid into each of the twelve clay molds in front of him. He had carefully crafted each earthen mold in the sacred design the gods had designated, coating them with charcoal and wax, and casing them in small egg-shaped clay shells. He made his sparkling adornments in the same fashion that his ancestors had used for centuries to glorify the gods. Normally Tenoch enjoyed his metalworking and he liked the prestige (and land) he gained from his creations for the high priest. Yet this time his job was laden with sorrow and rage.

The demons had come from far across the sea, clad in iron and filled with an insatiable greed. Unleashed upon his people they destroyed the city, slaughtering Tenoch's family along with hundreds of others until the streets ran red with blood.

But the gods would not forsake their children. They would punish the strangers' greed with the curse of living death. Tenoch had been chosen to make the medallions that would bear the curse, one for each child the gods had lost.

As he pulled another measure of liquid gold out of the fire, Tenoch had no way of knowing that someday his handiwork would one day end up in the hands of the most notorious pirates of the Caribbean.

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A/N: Meh. Not my fav of all my works, a kind of prologue to COTBP. Information on Aztec jewelry making comes from:www. aztec-history .com .


	13. Dark Servant

This week's prompt: Master

Dark Servant

"I'll'ave an'ale." It was more of a command than a request.

The barkeep looked up from where he had been flirting with one of the local businesswomen. As soon as he saw the pockmarked face, the immoveable scowling jaw and the cold contemptuous eyes he wasted no time in fulfilling the man's request. A chill ran down his spine at the grim half-smile that greeted the proffered cup of ale, and he steeled himself to meet the hateful eyes to ask if the 'gentleman' required a room.

"No." Came the dangerously low reply, even as the eyes laughed menacingly at the solicitor's apparent apprehension.

With one smooth and sinister movement the gentleman drained the cup, dropping a coin onto the bar and stalking into a shadowy corner of the room. Now all he had to do was wait.

Most of the room had not even regarded the gentleman, and under the cover of the Faithful Bride's usual cacophony, the barkeep told his companions what he knew.

"That there is Mad Murdering Mercer. Five years ago 'e lived about these parts. 'e killed anyone that so much as looked at 'im wrong--just for the mere pleasure of it. Some say 'e even drank their blood. That was five years ago. Now, 'e's got a master. One o' them milords 'hoo gets Mercer to do 'is dirty work. It's 'ard to say which one is worse--the master or the servant, but one thing's for sure, they're both the spawn of the devil and mark my words, 'avin 'im around's not a good sign."

He shared a final warning glance with his compatriots before turning to refill his cup.

Later that night, the man's wife would find him lying in the alley behind the inn, bleeding from a deep dagger wound in his chest, as a dark man with a pockmarked face grinned in the shadows.

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A/N: Y'gods! That Mercer's a nasty fellow aint he? After writing this, I can't help thinking of that set of lyrics from Phantom of the Opera: "Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise." But then, everything makes me think of musical theatre, lol. And then, for some reason I had this flash of Mercer in that last scene with a wand in his hand. He's a death eater, you know it, lol.


	14. Pinky and The Pirate

This week's prompt: fortuitous

Pinky and The Pirate

A young lad of seventeen with long black hair and dark eyes made his way through the mainroom of Tortuga's Faithful Bride. Every now and then he stopped, conversing with a sloshed seaman or tipsy tart, and then turning away, apparently unsuccessful in his endeavor. He had just failed to coax a fiery haired young whore out of a shilling or two, or her skirts, when he spied, near the door, a corpulent, well-dressed boy of about fourteen who was doing his best not to show how scared he was.

Beneath the smoky eyes the cracked lips broke into a devilish grin, revealing a set of crooked and blackened teeth.

The young man sauntered over to his target, taking in the wine colored coat trimmed in gold, the lacy cuffs of the creamy shirt, and greedily, the fine kid leather hat set with a stunning ruby feather that sat upon the boy's chubby brow.

The pirate bowed low.

"Ev'nin, your lordship." He addressed the boy, who started.

"What did you call me?" The boy countered sharply.

"I meant no offense, Dickie, but I don't know your name."

Warily, the boy replied, "It's Parkington."

The older boy smiled a little wider. "You can call me, Jack," he oozed.

The fat aristocratic cheeks parted into a shaky smile. "Everyone calls me Pinky."

Jack Sparrow suppressed a laugh.

"Well, Pinky. I gather you're not from around here."

'Pinky' looked as though he might deny the accusation, but he only shrugged and admitted, "No, I'm not."

"You wouldn't be running away would you Pinky?" Sparrow drawled.

"How did you know?"

In response, Jack just shrugged.

"Well, you're right. I was tired of my uncle's house. It's so boring there." The boy complained.

"And so you thought you'd come to Tortuga and have yourself a good time, eh?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Well then, Pinky, our meeting is truly fortuitous. I know just what do to." He hooked a conspiratorial arm around the boy and led him over to the bar.

A half a drink later, His Lordship Parkington Alexander Quimby, III lay unconscious, face down on the crude wooden bar. Jack Sparrow toasted his prostrate form.

"Havin' a good time yet, Pinky?"

He weighed His Lordship's small coinpurse with a practiced hand. An hour and a half later he left the Faithful Bride, with the fiery haired whore on his arm, and a black kid-leather hat perched jauntily on his head.

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A/N: Poor Pinky. He'll make it home alright though. I was having a hell of a time coming up with a response to this one, but I was watching the old Disney Zorro and Sergeant Garcia (like he does) was conning some kid out of his money for a bottle of wine. And voila! The shot was born!


	15. Foolish Hearts

This week's prompt: Evil

A/N: From _The Memoirs of James Norrington_, Mozart is Norrington's manservant. He is a mix of Caribbean and French, so you can imagine his accent.

Foolish Hearts

James Norrington pinched his face as the amber liquid burned from his throat to his ears.

"If you don't like it, why do you drink it, Monsieur?" Mozart stood in the doorway watching his master with a wary eye.

In response, the young Commodore, who sat on the floor of his sitting room in his shirtsleeves, took another swig from the bottle in his fist, swallowed hard, and made another face. After a score of similar sips, he leaned back against the wall, feeling the coolness of the Caribbean stone against his enflamed body.

The tears burned behind his eyelids. His lips parted, and none but his manservant heard him utter a low, bitter sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.

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William Turner sat in the cool garden behind the governor's mansion. The Caribbean moon shone brightly, illuminating the path that led to the ballroom door; the path that, just a few moments ago had taken Elizabeth from his arms and into her bed.

It had been a glorious afternoon. After years of hopeless longing and reserved distance, Will had spent hours entwined in Elizabeth's slender white arms, watching her eyes dance, hearing her laugh, lost in her fragrant smiles and musical voice. Will remembered the many warm embraces they had shared, and his pulse quickened at the memory of the youthful desire floating in Elizabeth's eyes just above her flushed cheeks; a desire he shared that even now made him ache for her again.

He sat, his heart and his loins suffering intensely from a young lover's longing. What a harpy she was, to tease him with her presence and then leave him lonely.

-------

William Turner grinned up at the glittering stars.

James Norrington leaned his head back and stared vacantly at his whitewashed ceiling.

Simultaneously, both men reached the same conclusion:

Women are evil.

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A/N: This takes place the evening just after COTBP ends. James gets drunk and mourns the loss of Elizabeth. Will is in ecstasies, but his passion for his new fiancé won't let him alone. If only they knew, I'd be glad to assuage both of them. I mean, er…

When approaching this prompt, the song "Evil Woman" popped into my head and would not shut up. So there you have it. Elizabeth truly is a wicked creature sometimes.


	16. A Book By Its Cover

This week's prompt: bind (and/or bound, binding, binds)

A Book By Its Cover

The moon hung high behind thick clouds, shrouding the two men who stalked cautiously down the filthy London street. The two figures came to a door flanked by two faintly glowing windows and ducked inside.

Beyond the shelves and stacks of books, that in the dim light gave the room a cave-like feel, an older man with sharp, angular features and charcoal-colored hair raised is gaze to the door. His eyes narrowed in recognition and he frowned, resuming his work as if nothing had happened.

The two visitors crossed to the table where a red hot needle guided by deft hands was pressing intricate designs into a rectangle of fine Moroccan leather.

"It's late. What do you want?" The craftsman inquired brusquely.

The words were barely out of his mouth when a blade pushed cold against his throat.

"A little respect for your paying customers, for one," its owner growled.

The blade was removed, and the craftsman rose sharply, his eyes fiery with contempt. He said nothing, but ducked behind a heavy embroidered curtain. After a few moments he emerged, holding a large parcel wrapped in cloth. He set it down on the table.

"Open it," the taller of the two men, who had up until this point remained silent, commanded.

The long nimble fingers, stained red and brown, gently peeled aside the wine-colored fabric, to reveal a heavy volume, set with brass studs and Portuguese style clasps. The cover sprawled with fronds and flourishes, expertly pressed into antique Spanish leather. Near the top, just under one of the pointed fastenings, in gleaming gold letters were printed the words 'Pirata Codex.'

"Good," the first pirate muttered, impressed in spite of himself with the artistry of the tome.

His companion placed a purse bulging with coins on the table, eyes carefully scrutinizing the purchase.

"Thank you," the bookbinder sneered, snatching up his payment as behind him four soldiers emerged from the shadows, their breastplates and swords glinting menacingly in the candlelight.

The pirates, who until now had remained laconic and calm, erupted into a storm of curses as to make the devil blush. Swords scraped from scabbards, pistols were drawn and banged loud in the confined space. The candle fell, bathing the room in darkness.

When the sun rose to once again illuminate the bookbinder's shop, the morning's earliest customers had only to wonder who it was had finally slain the bastard and the four soldiers lying in their own blood beside him.

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A/N: I did some research on bookbinding of the 17th Century for this drabble, which came primarily from _The Complete Book of Bookbinding_, which actually looks like a surprisingly fascinating read.


	17. Juste

Challenge prompt: touch, at 100 words with a M rating.

Warning: This is drabble is rated Mature for graphic scenes both sexual and violent in nature.

Juste

The Marquise de Jumeauville was a bitch.

It was universally known that she beat her servants to death for the sheer pleasure of it, betrayed every friend she had ever known for her own advancement, and ruled over her weak husband the Marquis with an iron fist.

The Marquise de Jumeauville was also lethally beautiful. It was that beauty with which, like the serpent in Eden, she twisted the will of the Viscomte de Borest and sent his troops marching into a small province in northern France. The province was left in cinders, and all its inhabitants brutally murdered--men, women, and children.

Which was why the Marquise now stood, bent low over the railing of the _Fancy _as the Penniless Frenchman let his crew embrace a pirating tradition that was more often espoused by his English brethren.

Ignoring her struggles and curses, her shrieks of "Don't you _dare_ touch me!" and threats of what the king might do if he found out, the Marquise de Jumeauville was violently raped, then dumped over the railing and into the relentless sea--who, sharing Capitaine Chevalle's ruthless sense of justice, quickly silenced her angry cries for help.

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A/N: Epic fail with regards to the challenge--192 words is not 100, lol. Not sure how mature this is either. *shrugs* Maybe I failed on both counts.

The pirating tradition mentioned here is the 'roger at the rail' the raping and subsequent dumping of female prisoners over the railing and into the sea.

_Juste, _as you may imagine_,_ is the French word for just. (I was going to use _Justice_, but it's spelled the same, and I couldn't imply the accent. :p)


	18. The Love Song of Weatherby Swann

This week's prompt: escape

The Love Song of Weatherby Swann

"Weatherby," the grave and graying Farthingay Swann, Baronet, bid his son adieu for the evening.

He moved away into the crowd, with the equally sanguine Baronetess Swann on his arm. Weatherby watched them go, knowing he would not see them again until about four, when they would stagger exhaustedly into their carriage and snore all the way home.

Twenty year old Weatherby Swann was considered by all of fashionable society to be a terrible pedant. A quiet, sickly child, he had grown into a thin, pale, bespectacled scholar; though not unhandsome, who was marked by the constant presence of a book in his ink-stained hand. He was a younger son, with his three brothers ahead of him, and to his parents, whose only concern was the advancement the Baronet's career, he was a practical nonentity.

Though they expected very little of him, he was keenly aware that he was, to them, a disappointment, and thus he accompanied them to these parties as they wished. While his father maintained and cultivated his connections, Weatherby's task was to seek out a lady of some property and family who would consent to marry him. He would then, as the Baronet explained, carry her off to the Swann's country seat where he could wither away among his beloved books and cease to be a burden to his parents.

The problem was, Weatherby Swann was terrified of women. He had been horrendously mocked for this by his brothers, and he was terribly ashamed of the fact, but nonetheless, it was true. Well, mostly. Over the years he had found that he could converse easily with any woman below his station, but those of equal or greater stature left him tongue tied, a laconic mirror of his solemn, sometimes impertinent, father.

So as he watched his parents disappear into a sea of powder and lace, the young academic sighed, found a glass of wine, and assumed his customary seat in an overstuffed chaise at one end of the ballroom. He was about to succumb to a scandalously unfashionable nap, when he caught sight of the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen.

She was standing a few feet away, talking animatedly with her friend, and Weatherby strained and was able to hear her laugh, smiling involuntarily as her eyes lit up, and remarking the way the devilish grin she wore transformed her already lovely face into a dream of beauty. He sat watching her for several minutes, enchanted by her every movement, wishing he had the courage to go to her and ask her to dance.

His heart fluttered happily until suddenly it skipped a beat. She had seen him! He averted his eyes, but it was too late, she was coming over to him. He looked around in vain for his parents, an acquaintance, a window--some form of escape, but here was none. He would have to talk to her.

She hovered ever nearer. Weatherby began to feel dizzy. Another step closer. He swallowed audibly. She was about to address him when--she was swept into the dance by a rosy youth in blue silk breeches and a silver waistcoat.

Weatherby relaxed, exhaling. But he was not entirely content. He watched the dance, jealous for the first time in his life. It was this emotion that emboldened him, so that, when the dance finished, he was able to talk up to where she was chatting with Lady Carriger and hoarsely ask her to dance.

It was discovered that her name was Deborah and that she was the daughter of Squire Evans visiting London with her cousins the Shelby's. The discovery of her lineage, which was somewhat below his own, freed Weatherby's tongue and they talked a little of poetry and music before propriety forced him to relinquish her to another partner. When the evening ended and he rejoined his parents, Weatherby Swann was quite sure he had fallen in love.

Despite her friends' warnings that he was an insufferable bookworm, and his parent's heated protestations that she had no family or connections, the two were married three months later and soon after she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Deborah's liveliness and warmth slowly brought her husband out of his books, and her good-natured cunning brought him political notoriety. Beyond anything he could ever have hoped for, Weatherby Swann was completely and blissfully happy.

"Beware marriage old boy, it's a terrible trap," his oldest brother, Farthingay, Jr., had teased him upon the announcement of his engagement.

To which the youngest Swann had merely grinned. If this was a trap, then he never wanted to escape.

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A/N: Awwww. It's almost too gooey to bear. Lol. I've wanted to write a Weatherby fic for a while, and I've always wondered what he was like as a young man. And so I had my imagination answer! The plotline about him being able to talk to women below him but not his equals is a nod to _She Stoops To Conquer_ by the slacker son of theatre history, Oliver Goldsmith. On another note, young Jonathan Pryce: not too bad looking.


	19. A Beautiful Reflection

This week's prompt: reflection

A Beautiful Reflection

Elizabeth slowly passed through the empty rooms, scrutinizing each sunlit corner and shrouded sofa. She came to the main parlor and was struck by the view, afforded by three large windows, from the high cliff on which the house sat out into the Caribbean sunset. She felt her spirits rise, sure that his was the house she would turn into a home. It was old and had been empty for many years, and needed work, but the anticipation of the task gave her comfort and a direction that she had lacked over the last few months.

She continued into the next room, and soon came to the master bedchamber. Nimble fingers tugged at a dingy dustcloth, revealing a sizable vanity of a much outdated style. Yet it held such majesty in its form and flourish that Elizabeth could not help but admire it. Her eyes fell from its intricately carved frame to the aging mirror beneath. She looked down into her own face, her eyes sad and uncertain, but hopeful. She saw the gentle bulge beneath her simple but fashionable dress and placed a hand upon it, smiling. The smile soon faltered, for the old mirror was so large that beside her the reflection showed nothing but empty space, space that so obviously lacked her husband.

Young Mrs. Turner sat down slowly on the low shrouded stool before the vanity, closing her eyes as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Her lip trembled, as she imagined Will guiding her through the empty rooms, examining the house with his craftsman's eye, making suggestions for improvements here and there; and once they had closed with the landlord, sweeping her over the threshold. There was nothing to do but rest her head on the commodious vanity and weep. So Elizabeth did.

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While Mrs. Turner was giving way to this show of emotion, the groom, who at her bidding had waited outside, was beginning to get impatient, and distant thunder warned of a coming storm. He hoped silently that his mistress would soon finish her business inside, but before the thought was fully finished, there was a smarting pain at the back of his head, and then darkness.

The shadow of a man passed over the groom's slumped form. The man who cast it slipped silently into the house, his keen ears soon catching the echoes of a woman's sob. He followed them to their source.

"Mrs. Turner?" The man inquired in his usual gruff manner.

Elizabeth raised her head and saw in the mirror a reflection that at first she did not believe. She turned to verify the reality of the image, and, tears still wet on her cheeks, jumped up, crying joyfully, "Bootstrap! What are you doing here?"

The craggy face broke into a grin. "Bloody hell, but it's good to see you Elizabeth! I've been looking for you for a bleeding hour now." A wave of urgency passed across his aged face.

"Well, I'm glad to see you too. But what are you doing here? Is Will with you?" Her voice constricted a little at this last request, and she raised her watery eyes to the doorway, hoping to see her husband come striding through.

"Nay lass, he's not here. You know he can't come ashore," he said bracingly, and Elizabeth's countenance fell, more tears flowing silently from her eyes. Bootstrap chivalrously ignored them, continuing his explanation, "It's sheer luck that we were even in this area, and I don't have much time."

Behind her tears she met his gaze in a question.

"I've got a delivery to make. Good thing I found you. When you weren't at your father's house I didn't know where to look. Housekeeper said you were out looking at properties."

For the first time the pirate seemed to take in Elizabeth's swollen belly. He jumped back as though he had been bitten.

"Elizabeth! Shit! You're--you're going to have a baby?" He exclaimed. "Well what'ya know! Wait til' I tell him."

At this point Elizabeth was half laughing and half crying. "I wanted to tell him Bootstrap, I wanted to write him the moment I knew, but I didn't know how."

Once again the older man jumped. "I almost forgot!"

He dug into a bag at his side and extracted a packet of letters, all bearing the uneven scrawl of Will's handwriting. She took them from his withered hand, blessing their poorly formed capitals and blotted sentences. She hugged them to her, more tears clouding her vision as she turned to Bootstrap and said shakily, "Thank you."

He shifted uncomfortably in the face of such gratitude and began to extract his other gifts. There was a shawl of Spanish lace which Bootstrap told her had come from a shipwreck off the coast of Santa Maria, a tiny china figurine that showed a lord and lady dancing, a set of silver handled dressing brushes, and the most precious of all, a small portrait, which Will's note explained he'd had painted by one of his passengers. The final gift her husband sent was a practical one, a medium sized box with a quantity of gold which he hoped would sustain her until he was able to contact her again.

Elizabeth began to wrap all of her treasures and prepare to leave, when Bootstrap pulled one final package from his bag. It was a simple shallow box, about the size of a book.

"From the Admiral." Bootstrap explained with a significant look.

"James?" She returned his gaze astonished.

"Aye. He's on board. Part of the crew now."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed at this news, and she wondered what it could possibly be that James Norrington had sent her. But that was for later.

"It's getting late, Mr. Turner. It's time I returned home."

He glanced at the sinking sun. "Aye. Me too."

She rose and embraced her father-in-law. "Tell him I love him. And that I miss him every minute."

"He knows that, but I'll tell him just the same. And I'll tell him about--" he gestured towards her stomach.

"When will I see you again, Bootstrap?" She asked anxiously.

"I don't know," He replied simply.

She nodded slowly. Then Bootstrap's face lit up as a thought struck him.

"Hey, I'm gonna be a grandfather! I'll be damned! If that don't beat all!" He seemed to think this was a grand joke, and kept chuckling about it all the way back to the harbor where the _Flying Dutchman_ lay waiting for him.

His son met him on the main deck and inquired after his first mate's jolly mood.

"I'm gonna be a grandfather you son-of-a-bitch!" Came the reply, coupled with a hearty slap on the back and an equally hearty laugh.

Then, as he realized what his father was telling him, Captain Turner erupted into giddy, if somewhat less foulmouthed, jubilations of his own. James Norrington, who was watching this scene from across the deck, turned and stalked quietly below decks, his stolid face revealing nothing of the turmoil raging within his breast.

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A/N: Aww. Gotta end on some Norry-angst. Rainy days are for reading/writing, so I started writing and this is what came out. Ah, the emotional overload of pregnancy. I swear my sister started crying every other word, lol. The title comes from _Funny Girl_, with pregnancy being "a beautiful reflection of my love's affection."

Readers of _The Memoirs of James Norrington_ may be able to guess what's inside James's package.

Readers of "The Gift of the Magi" may recognize some turns of phrase that I've borrowed here. Long live O'Henry.


	20. A Question of Taste

This week's prompt: egregious

A Question of Taste

Lord Edward Hamilton Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, surveyed his Aunt's dinner guests through long disdainful lashes. His eye passed over each guest, carefully scrutinizing each pair of shimmering breeches and fashionably exposed bosom. His Lordship, who considered himself an expert on all matters concerning dress, stood resplendent in red silk breeches, a silvery blue waistcoat, and a well-cut coat of azure trimmed in gold with five inch cuffs; out of which spilled the frothiest of shirt cuffs. The fashionable gaze continued to study the inhabitants of the large and elegantly furnished drawing room, when suddenly it stopped, affronted by a sight too offensive to be borne.

The red breeches floated across the room, coming to rest in front of the provocative garment.

"I beg your indulgence, sir, but might I have the honour of your name?" The aristocratic peacock drawled.

The man he had addressed blinked up at him, calculating his companion. A nearby lady, who had followed the path of the ruby breeches and now sought any excuse to gain the attention of their handsome owner, offered the answer.

"Cutler Beckett, your Lordship," she said enticingly, curtseying low to display even more of her already prominent bosom.

Lord Hyde now turned to inspect the lady, whose excellent emerald gown moved him deeply, so that he forgot the offending waistcoat and decided that he would heed her savory invitation. While he made these assessments, His Lordship was aware that the abomination had begun to speak to him.

"It's Lord Beckett, actually," he corrected in a low, exact voice.

His eyes still devouring his latest mistress's ample form, the Earl of Clarendon murmured a quick,

"Lord Beckett. Most egregious error,"

and flicking a dismissive wrist, which he noted made his cuffs spill ever so becomingly, offered the lady his arm and left Lord Cutler Beckett standing alone, his fury contained behind a complexion that much resembled the coveted breeches.

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A/N: Oh what ever happened to men's fashion?

All apologies to the actual Earl of Clarendon during this period: Henry Hyde, 4th Earl of Clarendon and 2nd Earl of Rochester, PC (June 1672 – 10 December 1753).


	21. Old Friends

This week's prompt: wave

A/N: In my version of things, James takes over on the _Dutchman_ after ten years and then meets and falls in love with Margaret (but that part isn't written…yet).

Old Friends

The sun was swimming low on the horizon gently painting the stately brick house on the bluff with a gentle orange glow. In the dining room, Elizabeth Turner, lovelier than ever at 43, put the finishing touches on a bouquet of exotic blossoms that would have their place of honor in the center of the carefully polished richly set table. In another part of the house, Mr. Turner was overseeing the selection of wines to be served with dinner and making sure that there was plenty of tobacco and pipes for after. The cook had spent all afternoon preparing a feast, and the maids had bustled to and fro, cleaning and fetching, turning down beds and airing out rooms. For tonight the Turners had a visitor.

An hour later a maid glided into the drawing room and announced that the guests had arrived.

Still just as tall, dignified, and handsome as ever, James Norrington strode into the room. On his arm was a slightly shorter rosy woman with a wide mouth, who possessed all of her hostess's beauty in a darker and sharper wrapping--the one day and the other night. Her clever grey-blue eyes began to sparkle happily as Mrs. Turner leapt up, stretching her arms forward in an embrace that was warmly returned.

"Margaret. It's so good to see you. I'm so glad you could come."

While this exchange was made, enquiries after the children satisfied, and dresses complimented, the men of the party were greeting each other in a similar fashion, with a hearty hand shake and a swift glass of wine.

Soon the party was seated around the table, eating and chatting companionably, laughing heartily and generally making merry. With the first two courses cleared away and the third being served, James turned the conversation to politics.

"Have you heard? The Yankees fancy themselves _independent_ now," Norrington spat with all the characteristic disdain of his younger years.

Elizabeth's eyes flashed and the color in her cheeks rose. She opened her mouth, feeling the wave building within her, but a look from Margaret stilled the waters, so that she bit back her retort and simply said, "Yes. I know."

But James knew her well enough to notice that her sense of justice was piqued, instantly reminded of her seventeen year old self. Will hid a wry smile, knowing that his wife had in their library a copy of Paine's _Common Sense_ as well as the declaration in question and several writings by Mr. Adams, Mr. Jefferson, and Mr. Henry. She had clung to the colonial newspaper accounts of the Sons of Liberty and the Boston Massacre, her romantic sensibilities stirred just as they had once been about pirates.

"We've been following events for quite some time," Will remarked equably.

"Makes my job busier," Norrington remarked, "Their damned rebel pirates are blasting the hell out of our transport ships."

"Yes," Margaret chimed in, trying to lessen the tension, "there are so many soldiers on board I lose my heart every time I walk out my cabin door."

She laughed, and Will joined her. But Elizabeth would not be deterred.

"Well it's nothing to the way that the King is heaping injustices upon the states," she fired at her former fiancé, fixing her face into an indignant pout.

Norrington sat stunned for a moment, his mouth clamped into a tight line. Will and Margaret held their breath and exchanged nervous glances. Then, James's expression broke into a broad grin and a low chuckle.

"My dear Mrs. Turner. It seems we must always agree to disagree. I've been fighting this battle with you for thirty years and I have yet to win it," he chuckled again, "If I know what's good for me I'll give up the fight before I end up a passenger on my own ship."

Elizabeth's petulant expression softened and the four friends shared a jolly laugh.

Then, James stood and gallantly raised his glass.

"To your revolutionaries then. May they get what they want, and want what they get."

Elizabeth grinned back mischievously.

"And to the King. May he get what he deserves and more besides!"

The toast was drank as once more the house on the bluff rang with the laughter of old friends, and the moon looked down upon them and pondered the fate of Mother England and Daughter America.

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A/N: In honor of Independence Day. How would our favorite characters react to the American Revolution?

Can you tell I work at a place where I talk about the Constitution all day long? It was General Washington who said that once the Revolution was won, the real work would begin--and he was right. The colonists got what they wanted, but then it was a huge mess until Mr. Madison saved our infant nation and gave us some rules. Yes, I am a little biased, but it's all true. As far as the Revolution is concerned, I sympathize with both sides, and it was not my intention to demonize either side here. Apologies to all Brit readers! J

I can't help but quote some Sondheim:

"But us old friend what's to discuss old friend?  
Here's to us,  
Who's like us?  
Damn few."--_Merrily We Roll Along_


	22. A Lover's Fee: Road to Brazil

This week's prompt: Indian

A Lover's Fee: Road to Brazil

"Ok, we're almost there," growled Pintel, consulting a large worn and yellowing map, "we should come upon the Indian village any minute now."

"Native American village," Ragetti corrected him from the front of the narrow boat that coasted down Rio Paraguai.

Pintel shot him a dirty look.

"Hang on, are you sure its 'Native American,' Mr. Murtogg piped up, "I thought only North American Indians were called that."

Mr. Mullroy, who was roused from his lovesick melancholy by the debate pinched his face into a thoughtful scowl.

"So you're saying that just because they're not from _North _America they're not Americans?" he challenged.

His friend looked puzzled. "No, but it seems to me--"

"If I said Indians, it's Indians! Now shut it!" Pintel interrupted them angrily. He was still not sure how he'd been roped into this trip.

"We're here." Came Ragetti's hushed voice from the front of the boat.

Four sets of expectant eyes looked to the shore, where black smoke rose from a series of fires, around which were gathered groups of umber skinned men and women, scantily clad in animal pelts; many wore no garments at all, but carried long wicked spears. As they neared the shore, the spears were lowered to point menacingly at them.

"Uh, Rags, now would be a good time to show 'em the loot," Pintel said nervously, nudging the mastermind behind this excursion and eyeing the blades that loomed nearer and nearer.

Ragetti nodded and produced a bag of gold coins, the proceeds of the unfortunate clown which they had sold in Tortuga, and began to babble on about peaceful intentions and help and love potions and such, using many gestures which his listeners viewed with quizzical eyes. Then, the tallest and most adorned man on the shore held up a hand and the spears rose.

A quarter of an hour later, the four pirates hung upside down overlooking a point further down the Rio Paraguai where the water fell almost twenty feet to pound against the rocks below.

Mullroy had passed out and mumbled miserably in his sleep, occasionally calling out to his "Mary."

Beside him, Murtogg tried to wake him by yelling his name repeatedly and telling him that if he only woke up, they'd find some way to get out of this.

Pintel and Ragetti, as usual, were arguing.

"This was YOUR idea," Pintel grumbled.

"Yes but it was you wot insulted the chief's daugh'er!"

"I was just bein' sociable!" The older pirate countered, falling into a brooding silence.

Then his face lit up.

"Hey, I know! Parley!" He pronounced, full of the ingenuity of his plan.

"Pint," Ragetti turned to him, "They're Indians, they don't know about Parley."

Pintel's face fell.

"_Native Americans_." Insisted Mullroy groggily.

"Dan, you're back!" Murtogg exclaimed, and Pintel just rolled his eyes.

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A/N: What do you do with an off the wall prompt? Throw off the wall characters at it. Another installment in Mullroy's ongoing quest to win his lady love by bell, book, or candle. You can read the first installment as an earlier chapter of this collection.

The title is a nod to some of the best comedy movies ever made, the Bing Crosby & Bob Hope 'Road to' movies.


	23. Carnal Directions

This week's prompt: write about a character or pairing that is _not_ your favorite.

Carnal Directions

By the dim light of her solitary candle Elizabeth pulled out the compass. She opened its worn wooden case to see the needle once again quivering in the direction of what she knew was the captain's cabin. The future Mrs. Turner bit her lip and closed the lid, her mind's eye swimming with vivid images of the _Pearl's _charismatic captain. At once her stomach knotted in pangs of guilt, but they were overridden by pangs of desire as she imagined the familiar devilish grin and low enticing voice of a man she was deeply intrigued by.

She lay awake a few more minutes. Then, resigned to the fact that she was not going to fall asleep any time soon, she swung out of her bunk and into her shoes. Compared to the stuffy lower decks, the main deck was cool and breezey and bathed in blue moonlight. She began to stroll along the deck, contemplating her situation, telling herself again and again how much she loved Will, how hurt he would be, how she should be thinking about him in the way that she was now imagining this pirate. And yet these thoughts were stifled by visions of foreign kisses, hot and passionate, from a pair of strong and steady lips; powerful arms encircling her waist and pulling her into a crushing embrace, and the dark eyes and devouring gaze that even now made her heart do a small somersault.

Lost in her daydreams, she stopped walking as she came upon a door. She immediately recognized it as the captain's cabin. Just beyond the door she pictured Captain Sparrow lounging in his bunk, alone and inviting. The minutes passed silently as she stood, unable to enter and unable to leave. Her imagination burned with the unexplored territory that lay just beyond the cabin door. Her heart ached with guilt. Her brain pulsed with repeated messages of caution and reason. And yet her hand reached for the doorknob.

Before she could pull open the heavy door, a voice at her elbow made her jump.

"Come to tuck me in, love?"

And she turned, feeling his arm around her waist, feeling his breath close to hers, looking up into the dark, dangerous eyes that flickered with a desire that would not be denied.

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A/N: I decided to take the prompt in the direction of a pairing that not only is not my favorite but that I actually hate. I _hate _Sparrabeth. I'm a hopeless romantic and so the idea of Elizabeth betraying Will like that is just a big NO! Besides, I don't find Elizabeth to be Jack's true match. Like she complements Will so perfectly, but Jack needs a lady with more…I dunno, but whatever it is, Elizabeth doesn't have it.


	24. Anything But Love

A/N: I'm catching up, so this week is a multiprompt response.

This week's prompts: scar, magnetism, mad

Anything But Love

"Are you mad?"

"From the Old English 'gemaed;' silly or odd." Jack recited, dismissively.

"Yes, I am aware what it means," replied James Norrington impatiently, "What I want to know is whether or not the term applies to your current mental state!"

Jack teetered close to the ruggedly epauletted captain of the _Flying Dutchman_. "I'm as sane as you are, chappie."

"That's beside the point," Norrington retorted, pushing him away. "Sparrow, I didn't even want your help, but now that you're here, please remember that we are talking about a _lady_."

"I resent that remark. All me gals are ladies. I can't help it if I've got something you don't."

Despite himself, Norrington replied, "And what might that be?"

Jack spread his arms wide and grinned wickedly. "Animal magnetism."

Norrington shot him such a heated look that Will decided that it was time he joined the conversation.

"I don't know what you're so worried about, Captain. You weren't this way about Elizabeth."

"Yes, and we all know how much success I had there."

"I'm telling' ya Jimmy, take my advice." Jack piped up again, thoroughly enjoying seeing Norrington so lovesick.

"What you suggest is not even within the bounds of decency," Norrington resumed his disgusted expression, "I suppose you haven't noticed that every woman seduced by your methods ends up assaulting you in some way?"

Jack looked thoughtful. "I had noticed a degree of hostility. But what's love without a little passion, eh?"

Norrington snorted scornfully, and Will gave Jack a look that said, _leave now_. Sparrow heeded the silent appeal and slipped out of the cabin door.

"Why don't you just give it to her?" Will said calmly, gesturing to a small wooden box that sat on Norrington's desk.

Norington looked for the first time at the box, his expression heavy. His hand rose inadvertently to rest against the his chest where a scar remained from when, upon being appointed the _Dutchman_'s captain, he had cut out his heart.

"I can't," he said in a strangled voice.

There were a few moments silence while Norrington buried his face in his hands. Then once again his voice was back to its normal regimented tone and his face clear of any anguish. He stood abruptly.

"Thank you for your advice, Mr. Turner."

He dismissed Will with a curt handshake, watching him exit through the cabin door. When he was alone his gaze traveled once again to the small box, through which he could hear the faint sound of a heartbeat. He sighed, slumping into his chair and raising the lid.

"I can't," he murmured again into the silence, watching the red organ throbbing with life.

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A/N: "…til that lucky day you know darn well, baby, I can't give you anything but loooove…"--music: Jimmy McHugh; lyrics: Dorothy Fields


	25. Birthday Boots

This week's prompt: Solitude

Birthday Boots

Deep in the hull of the _Black Pearl _a figure moved silently past the crates and barrels. The darkness of the ship's bowels provided a kind of filthy solitude on the crowded galleon, and it was here that this particular pirate spent his sleepless wanderings. They did not come often, but on the occasion that he felt the pangs of guilt and homesickness, when the faces of his son and the boy's mother crowded his mind so he could not sleep, he found his refuge here.

He sat atop a crate, the foul bilge water lapping at his trademark boots as the ship rode the quiet waves. One calloused hand plunged into an inner pocket, extracting a single letter. It was worn with repeated readings, and its words were run into inky streams by its author; whether the tears were of sorrow or rage he did not know. Inside its browning folds was tucked a small lock of sandy brown hair, not unlike his own had been before it had matured into the nutty brown that it was now.

Holding the strand between his fingers, the seaman examined it in the dim light, and tried again to imagine what his son was like. Three years it had been since he had slipped from his warm bed and left her sleeping, his ambitions set on adventure and fortune, his blood pulsing with an anticipation that her soft and supple form could not inspire. He enjoyed the life of a seadog, it was everything he had hoped it would be and more. It was only on nights like this that he ever regretted his decision to become a pirate.

"Happy birthday, William." He muttered into the darkness, "May ya turn out to be a much better man than your old dad."

Then, drawing out the bottle he had brought along for this very purpose, he toasted his bastard son, repeating the motion again and again until finally the affects of the drink overcame his insomnia and he slumped backwards into a deep and snoring sleep.

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A/N: Am I the only one whose free association jumps from "solitude" to "…lead me take me from my solitude…" ? ALW love.


	26. In Which Master Ragetti Has A Secret

The week's prompt: Spent

In Which Master Ragetti Has A Secret

Pintel started awake with a snort. He had been dreaming he was enjoying a lusty rendezvous with a grinning golden-haired mistress, and her bouncing enthusiasm for the sport had just caused him to topple out of the bed. Before he had hit the floor, he'd awakened to find himself, not face to face with the generous bosom of a winning lass, but in the hot stinking bowels of _The Black Pearl_ in the middle of a scorcher of a Caribbean afternoon. He and Ragetti had served the graveyard shift of the watch last night, punishment for one of their clumsy escapades that had the misfortune to gain the Captain's disapproval. Now off-duty, Pintel did what he usually did when he had a moment's peace--he slept. Ragetti had come to sleep as well, but now as Pintel looked, the younger, scrawnier pirate was nowhere to be seen, and his hammock sagged expectantly from its pegs.

Pintel's brow automatically furrowed. His nephew had been acting very peculiarly lately. Or, as Pintel reasoned, more peculiarly than usual. For instance, where he had previously displayed only a passing interest in the card games and the gambling that kept many in the crew busy during the long empty hours, he had now taken to playing a great deal, frustrating his mates by winning some pretty fair sums and hoarding that money. When they had sunk a French merchant a few days before, Ragetti had been less interested in the chests and crates that emerged from the storage hull; which contained the money, rum and food, than in the small chest that had come from the captain's quarters, full of useless papers and maps.

Then there was the last time they had made port. Ragetti had broken away from the main party who were engaging in their usual drinking and carousing at The Faithful Bride. He'd returned about and hour later with his money all spent and his bag rustling suspiciously. Since then, the young pirate had been undiscoverable during his leisure time, and was even showing up late to meals.

Pintel did not mind the time spent free of Ragetti's inquisitive-to-the-point-of-annoying company, but he was curious, and curiosity on board a ship could gnaw away at a man like the weevils who burrowed in the stale biscuits he ate for breakfast. Unable to regain sleep in such oppressive heat, Pintel grunted and swung out of his hammock. He began to search the ship for his elusive nephew, trying to remember all of Ragetti's favorite spots.

Having exhausted all of them, Pintel tried to ignore the heat as he plunged into the stuffy and cramped lower decks. He was lumbering along past a row of crates which his nose, and the flies circling them, told him held salted meat, when he spotted one long, bony leg sticking out from behind one of them. He moved past the crates and swore mildly in surprise.

For there was Ragetti, propped up on a pile of crates, a large pair of lens-less spectacles perched on his nose, clutching a bi-fold on which was printed an etching of a large stone gate with vaulted doorways. His brow was furrowed in concentration as his mouth shifted, slowly forming silent words.

"Reading?" Pintel said incredulously. "That's what you've been up to?"

Ragetti started, hugging the periodical to his chest as if he could hide his guilty secret.

"Only a little," he admitted sheepishly. "I'm teachin' myself."

An awkward silence hung in the air between them as Pintel continued to glare in disbelief. His eyes fell to the surrounding pages. They were all covered in sprawling letters, some of them featuring drawings of bewigged men or a strange looking plant. Pintel snatched up the one nearest to him, picturing a well-dressed gentleman and his equally fashionable companion.

"Oh and wouldn't we look just lovely in this," Pintel mocked, waving the fashion plate at his nephew and striking what he considered an courtly pose.

"That's mine!" Ragetti reached for the page, lunging too far and falling off of his crate, sending periodicals flying in all directions.

As the pages floated around him, Pintel found his tongue.

"You can't read! You don't have the smarts! You gotta have brains like me." He tapped his forehead impressively.

"I've got brains! I've got dozens of em!" countered Ragetti, collecting pages in an affronted way. "An' if you're so smart, why don't _you_ read?"

The young man thrust his copy of "The Gentleman's Magazine or The Monthly Intelligencer" at his uncle. Pintel, slightly taken aback, frowned more deeply. He quickly recovered, grabbing the paper and fixing it with an appraising gaze. Then after a few moments he tossed it away, defeated.

"I don't need to read. It's a waste of money, " Pintel asserted in his most superior tone, turning his back on the makeshift library.

Behind him, Ragetti wore a satisfied smirk as he re-adjusted the spectacles on his nose and settled in to finish struggling through the first sentence of "Her Highnesses Character and Accomplishments."

Pintel shook his head as he climbed back to his berth.

"Jesus! He'll be even worse'n usual now," he muttered to himself, lying back against the canvas of his hammock, closing his eyes and trying to remember just what that golden haired wench looked like.

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A/N: I know, I know. You're all saying "but in the third movie it clearly states that Ragetti _can't_ read!" But I don't see how he could know all the quirky things he does without reading. So as a kind of an AU, young Ragetti teaches himself to read.

_The Gentleman's Magazine or The Monthly Intelligencer_ was a periodical first published by Edward Cave in 1731. The magazine circulated until about 1922, containing news, essays, commentaries and excerpts from popular books. Samuel Johnson's first job as a writer was for _The Gentleman's Magazine_, contributing parliamentary reports. I read a section of one where a lady writes in to the editor, bemoaning a man she loves who has treated her ill; "I beg your Advice, which when he reads in your Paper, he may have a little more Regard for the Person he has ruined." If you are interested, the archives can be found here: ..?item=title&id=ILEJ.3.&title=Gentleman's+Magazine.


	27. Like Father, Like Son

This Week's Prompt: Coward

Like Father, Like Son

William Turner sighed heavily, fingering the silver pocket watch safely tucked in his coat pocket and looking out to sea. It had been just that morning that his father had informed him that he himself was going to be a father and the elation and celebration had given way to quiet contemplation and, as was always the case whenever he thought of Elizabeth, a homesick melancholy. Just at that moment he was missing his wife terribly; on the one hand imagining her pregnant and finding he had to use all of his determination not to let the excitement that accompanied such an image show in his trousers, and on the other lamenting that his child would be born without him. That Elizabeth would have to endure the agonies of childbirth and he would not be there to comfort her.

It was the first time that he could not follow his impulse and go to her, and to his mixture of emotions was added a childish frustration and anger. He hated the ship, the path he had chosen, this floating prison. It did not matter at that moment that his current position as captain of the _Flying Dutchman _had saved his life. He was pouting, and while he did so his crew, who were used to their captain's periodic tantrums, let him alone.

All except for Mister Turner.

"Ev'nin Captain." He approached his son, coming to lean against him on the rail. "Eh…interestin' night we're havin'. Hot."

Will grunted in reply. Bootstrap took out a leather wallet full of tobacco and offered it to the young captain, who declined it with an agitated wave of his hand.

"Now I know you're standing here feelin' sorry for yourself, but it won't do no good to think about it," Bootstrap asserted, taking a piece of tobacco and putting it in his mouth. He began to chew, punctuating his speech with occasional pauses to spit over the railing.

"You're not going to be there when the kid is born--you'll survive. You're thinkin' she won't make it through the birthin'--she will. You're thinkin' you gotta be the worst kinda man to go away an' leave her like this, to abandon her an' your kid…but you're not."

The old pirate had quieted a little at this last statement, and Will got the impression that they weren't talking about Elizabeth's child anymore. Will watched his father's shoulders slump a little and a grizzled sigh escape his lips. He looked down into the water as he spoke.

"Truth is, you're a better man than you know."

"What do you mean?" Will asked, a whole river of unresolved emotions regarding his father colliding in his stomach all at once.

Boostrap spat violently.

"Well, least you want to be there. Least you'd be there if you could."

Will hesitated, almost not wanting the painful answer that he knew would follow. But he had to ask.

"Would you have been there, if you could?" Will felt like he was ten years old again, still under the illusion that his father was a good man, a decent sailor; and he was suddenly filled with the dogged affection that a child has for an unknown parent. The feeling quickly faded.

"Shit, William!" Bootstrap pounded the railing with his fist. "Haven't I told yah? I'm no good! I never was! I didn't even know your mother was pregnant til' after I'd gone."

"Would you have stayed, if you'd known?" Will felt the bitterness creep into his voice.

"No." Bootstrap replied with equal acidity. He spat again.

"I was a coward William," he growled, "I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" Will exploded, both surprised and enraged.

"Jesus William! Of bein' a father! Of takin' care of you. Of bein' responsible and providin' for yah!"

"And so you left us?" Will's voice was filled with the indignant justice that so characterized him. "How do you think we felt?"

Bootstrap turned away, but his son continued.

"Maybe if I told you how scared _she_ was! Maybe if I told you how she cried all the time and tried to hide it from me. She cried because she didn't have any money, because she got sick and couldn't work! And where were you?"

Will released the question savagely into the night. Behind them, the crew had stopped to listen.

"I almost came back a few times." Bootstrap said weakly. Then he shrugged. "I told yah I was no good."

After a moment he turned and stalked away. Will's knuckles burned white where he was gripping the railing. So many emotions were churning inside him. He was angry at his father, hurting again just like when he was growing up, and he felt the guilt washing over him at the thought of his mother. He was no better than his father. He had left her too. She was sick, and he'd gone off. He tried to argue that it was because he needed to make money to get her care, that there wasn't enough food for the both of them, but he couldn't deny the fact that he had abandoned her. And before he had even reached Port Royal she had died.

That was why he had to be there for Elizabeth. He would not make the same mistakes his father did. He would care for his son, he would not abandon his wife.

_But this damn ship!_

And once again Will was locked in the cycle of anger and angst that he had begun with. He stood brooding for several more minutes before returning to his cabin to write yet another letter to Port Royal's good doctor, upping his offer to ensure her attendance at the birth; and to his wife, pouring out all of his fears and doubts, wishing she could be there to smile and laugh at him as she always did, kissing him and telling him that he worried too much, and beckoning him winsomely to the small bunk behind the organ.

* * *

A/N: I was sitting in my room today, minding my own business, eating a cream cheese bagel, when WHAM! I was taken out by my muse. When I regained consciousness I could do nothing but write, and this is what came out.


	28. A Lover's Fee: Road to Riches

This week's prompt: Flair

A/N: This shot is dedicated to SirenoftheStorm, who insisted that I write this link story between Ch. 11: A Lover's Fee and Ch. 22: A Lover's Fee: Road to Brazil.

A Lover's Fee: Road to Riches

"There," Ragetti straightened, regarding the large crate he had just placed in an empty corner of Tortuga's busy market. "Now, all we 'ave to do is find someone wot will buy 'im."

Pintel wore his customary scowl. "Who's gonna wanna buy 'im? This ain't gonna work--just like last time."

"We just need to do a bit of proper sellin' that's all." Ragetti remained optimistic.

"Yeh, well, good luck," Pintel eyed the other end of the square, where the Faithful Bride's sign swung temptingly.

"Well, I was countin' on you doin' it actually," Ragetti looked sideways at his uncle.

"Are ya off yer' nut? This was your idea, not mine," Pintel spat, "you do it."

Ragetti looked crushed. Pintel sighed and stretched his countenance into his goofy yellow smile.

"Aw come on, Rags, you gotta do it. I'd just ruin it. Besides, you're the only one with the proper...uh…flair for the dramatic," he coaxed.

Ragetti brightened like a small child who's been offered an ice cream cone.

"Well, I s'pose I could try."

"Atta boy!" Pintel clapped him on the back as he began rehearsing sales pitches.

A few yards from where they stood, curious passersby gaped at two ___ men attending to a brightly dressed, fiery-haired anguished-looking clown. The tallest of the two was carefully combing the orange tufts into cunning twists, while his shorter, squatter companion used a cloth to spread a pale white paint over the jester's apprehensive face. The men talked as they worked.

"Say fella, what kind of a clown are you anyway?" Samuel Murtogg asked.

The man, somewhat taken aback at being addressed, opened his mouth to respond, but Daniel Mullroy cut off his reply.

" 'What kind of clown is he?' " he whined argumentatively. "He's just a clown. It don't matter what _type _he is."

"Yeah but I mean, what does 'e do? You know 'ow there's some clowns that do funny stuff an' there're others that do tricks 'n things."

Again the clown in question attempted to join the conversation. The pirates ignored him.

"So just because he's not funny, he's not a clown, is that what you're sayin?"

"No, I just think there's lots of different kinds of clowns, 'tsall."

"Yeah, but some o' them tricks are pretty funny," Murtogg dropped his confrontational demanor, "Like remember that clown we saw in Santo Domingo that one Christmas?"

Mullroy grinned conspiratorially.

"What you mean that one that--"

"Hey! You two! You ready yet?" Pintel bellowed at them.

"Boy he's in a mood today," Murtogg muttered, stowing his utensils.

"That's nothing new is it?" Mullroy agreed as they ushered their goods to market.

A few minutes later, a small crowd had gathered around the crate, listening to the scrawny young man who stood atop it, pointing out the clown's prominent features with an iron poker.

"Ladies an' gentl'men I ask you, 'ave you ever spied a more amusin' performer than the one wot stands before you now? Now wot am I bid for such a specimen?"

The crowd remained silent, gawking up at Ragetti and the clown.

"Come on now there's gotta be one of you could use a little laughter in your life. Wot about you sir?" he addressed a large, scowling figure in the first row. In response, the man released a jet of putrid brown muck from his mouth and turned away. Ragetti's expression drooped. A few feet behind the man, Pintel gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up. Ragetti rallied, once again addressing his audience.

"Come now ladies' n' gentl'men what am I bid? 50 pounds? What do I hear for 50 pounds?"

The crowd remained unresponsive. Then, from the shadows at the back of the crowd a figure emerged and began to saunter his way through the crowd which parted on either side of his foreboding smirk. The figure stopped just before the crate. Murtogg, Mullroy, Pintel, Ragetti and the clown sobered, their eyes wide.

"Cap'n," Ragetti stammered, dropping his poker.

"Not while you're 'on sabbatical'" I'm not." Hector Barbossa fixed his former crewmates with a sardonic glare. "Now, I'd appreciate if ye'd heed my offer."

"You want to buy 'im?" Pintel flicked an incredulous thumb towards the clown, who was watching the exchange with wary eyes.

"Aye master Pintel, that be my aim in seekin' ye out."

"But, why?" It was former private Murtogg who spoke.

Captain Barbossa shrugged his right shoulder slightly. "My reasons are me own. Now will ya take my money or will I have to persuade ye?" He twitched one side of his coat open to show a bag of coins hanging next to his pistol.

***

An hour later, the clown, whose name was in fact Leslie, stood before the large table in Barbossa's cabin. From the table, a small furry face eyed him quizzically.

"Jack, say hello to your new keeper."

"Keeper?" Leslie's protest was cut short by Barbossa's heavy glance.

"I thought ye might be able to teach him a thing or two in the process. Yeh know, tricks n' things."

He reached out a hand and the monkey shrieked and scampered to him. Barbossa began to feed the excitable mammal, while Leslie stood conflicted.

"Well, you see," he protested weakly, "I'm really one of those clowns who's more of a jester, you know, mimes and jokes and things like that…" his voice trailed off as Barbossa pulled out his pistol and sat in on the table. Then he stood up, pulling some papers from his desk and examining them.

"Lose the costume," he said without looking up.

Leslie, who looked as if he were about to cry, turned on his heel and left.


	29. Pacta Sunt Servanda

This week's prompt: Witness

For Nytd, who insisted I write more about poor Leslie the Clown. His history can be found in Ch. 11: A Lover's Fee and Ch. 28: A Lover's Fee: Road to Riches.

Pacta Sunt Servanda

Squinting in the midday son, Ham Tunney, the hulking ship's carpenter on board _The Black Pearl_, sniggered at the sound of vomit slapping against the waves. The poor soul from whose bowels the foul liquid was being roughly ejected was a recent addition to the _Pearl's_ crew, a lanky man with a long face and large nose whom the crew jeeringly referred to as "Lucky Leslie."

The man, whose actual name was Leslie Nocke, was so-called because his regrettable task on board the large ship was the care and instruction of a small capuchin monkey named Jack. This he had been attempting to do with much misery and some personal harm over the past week, despite the fact that his stomach still had not accustomed itself to the rhythm of the Caribbean. Pushing himself back from the aft railing over which he had been retching, Mr. Nocke allowed his shaky legs to slump him to the deck. From a yardarm far above him a furry face screeched and grinned tauntingly. Pulling his knees towards him, the seasick monkey sitter pushed his long fingers into the carrot colored curls that remained as the last vestiges of his former life as a theatre clown. In silent exasperation he asked God for the fiftieth time how he had ended up in this predicament, and prayed for respite from this torture.

These nauseated lamentations were interrupted by a rough bellow forward. It was the captain's voice, unmistakable in its mocking menace. That was the tone he always used when speaking to Leslie, and reluctantly the former clown got to his feet and made his way to the foredeck.

"Ah, there ye are, Leslie." Captain Barbossa's turn was punctuated by the customary large feather affixed to his hat.

Leslie blinked, his attention arrested by the black haired man who stood behind the Captain, currently fixing the new arrival's orange locks with a critical eye. Leslie returned the look, inwardly remarking that somehow this man seemed to have mastered the art of lounging while standing up. He was about to inquire as to his purpose at the scene when the Captain barked at him once again.

"Leslie, we be in need of a witness."

Leslie nodded.

"Just a minute there, Hector," the darker man drawled, "you're sure he's qualified for this sort of thing?"

Leslie saw the Captain roll his eyes.

"Ye were planning on administering an entrance exam?" Barbossa's voice dripped with disdainful sarcasm.

"Well, if he's got your brains he probably can't even button his britches, let alone sign his name," came the reply.

"Considering the number of bastards ye've got, its ye who've trouble keepin' your pants up," Barbossa fired back calmly.

"Only when your mother's around," the other man grinned devilishly.

Captain Barbossa sighed, annoyed. "Jack, I haven't time to listen to your sexual fantasies. Quit yer stallin'. Do we have an accord or not?"

Jack Sparrow turned his eyes back to Leslie, who had been rather enjoying the exchange. To see the man who had been ordering him around all week being set down a peg was quite satisfying.

"Mr…" Jack started, waiting for Leslie to provide the rest.

"Nocke," Leslie finished for him, warming to this man who respected him enough to use his proper name.

"Mr. Nocke, might I ascertain whether or not you can read and write?" the man asked him with considerable flourish.

"I can, sir," Leslie replied with dignity.

"Good man," Jack replied flippantly, "Alright, Hector, he'll do." Jack began to make his way towards the captain's cabin and Barbossa followed, motioning to Leslie to do likewise.

"Though I don't know why you're so set on making me sign anything. It won't stop me from buggering you and your mother in the end."

Captain Barbossa did not respond but with a sanguine expression propelled his companions into the cabin and slammed the door behind.

A/N: Pacta Sunt Servanda is Latin for "agreements must be kept" and is the foundational doctrine for contract law.


End file.
